He doesn’t. He’s perfectly collected, not in the least bit affected by my flustered state. ‘Your grandmother should take security a little more seriously.’ He rubs his index finger slowly across his stubbled chin, his eyes taking a leisurely jaunt down my body.
It’s only now I realise that I’m standing in my underwear, and my arms instinctively cross over my chest, attempting in vain to conceal my modesty from his roving eye. I’m horrified, even more so when his lips tip at the edge and his eyes sparkle as they land on mine.
‘You’d better lose your bashfulness, Livy.’ He stands, casually strolling over to me, sliding his hands in his grey trouser pockets. His chest meets mine, and he looks down at me, not touching with his hands, but touching with absolutely everything else. ‘Then again, I quite like your shyness.’
I’m shaking – physically shaking, and no amount of pep talking is halting it. I want to appear confident, nonchalant and carefree, but I don’t know where to start. Decent underwear might be a good place.
He bends down, getting his face in the line of my dropped sight, and pulls my falling hair from my shoulders, holding it from my face. Lifting my gaze, only very slightly, I quickly find his. ‘My twenty-four hours don’t start until I get you in my bed.’
I feel my brow completely furrow. ‘You’re really going to time it?’ I ask, wondering if he’ll produce a stopwatch.
‘Well.’ One of his hands drops my hair, and he looks down at his expensive watch. ‘It’s six-thirty now. By the time I get you uptown in rush hour, it’ll be approximately seven-thirty. I have a charity ball tomorrow evening around seven-thirty, so I’ve timed this just perfectly.’
Yes, he has timed it perfectly. So when the clock strikes seven-thirty, do I get tossed out on my arse? Do I turn into a pumpkin? I feel jilted already and we haven’t even started, so what am I going to feel like come seven-thirty tomorrow evening? Like shit, that’s what – rejected, unworthy, depressed and abandoned. I open my mouth to call a stop on the whole diabolical arrangement, but then I hear the sound of old footsteps clumping up the stairs.
‘Oh shit, my nan’s coming!’ My palms meet his suit-covered chest and push into him, guiding him back towards a built-in cupboard. I’m panicking, but I’m still appreciating the solidness beneath my flat palms. It makes my steps falter and my heart jump wildly. I glance up at him.
‘Feel good?’ he asks, sliding his palms around my back and circling my waist. I hold my breath, then I hear the creaking again. It snaps me right out of my lustful state.
‘You need to hide.’
He snorts his disgust and moves his grip to my wrists, detaching me from his chest. ‘I’m not hiding anywhere.’
‘Miller, please, she’ll have heart failure if she catches you in here.’ I feel beyond stupid for making him do this, but I can’t let my grandmother barge into my room and see him. I know she’ll go into seizure, and I know it’ll be in shock, but it won’t be shock of the ordinary kind. No, Nan will pass out for a few seconds, then she’ll throw a bloody party. I release a frustrated, suppressed yell, forgetting all embarrassment with regards to my lack of attire, and give him pleading eyes. ‘She’ll get excited,’ I explain. ‘She prays to the Lord Almighty every day for my self-discovery.’ I’m running out of time. I can hear floorboards creaking as she gets closer to the door of my room. ‘Please.’ My naked shoulders sag, defeated. I can barely do this to myself, let alone to my elderly grandmother. It would be cruel to build her hopes up with a complete non-starter. ‘I won’t ask for anything else, just please don’t let her see you.’
His lips form a straight line and his head drops forward a little, the wayward lock of dark hair falling onto his brow, and without a word, he releases me and moves across my room, but he doesn’t step into the cupboard; he goes behind my floor-length curtains. I can’t see him, so I don’t argue.
‘Olivia Taylor!’
I swing around and find Nan in the doorway, her eyes roaming all over my room, like she knows I’m hiding something. ‘What’s up?’ I ask, silently scolding myself for my poor choice of words. What’s up? I would never say that, and her suspicious face notes this, too.
Her eyes narrow, making me feel even more conspicuous. ‘That man—’
‘What man?’ I need to shut up and let her spit it out, not intercept her and make her even more suspicious.
‘That man in the car outside,’ she continues, resting her hand on the doorknob. ‘Your boss.’